Flos Nix
by obduracy
Summary: Flos Nix; Snow Flower. The flower of the snow. Will she ever find her Sun? Katniss Snow is the daughter of the Panem's President. For the precious time she has lived, she has lived in that of a special kind of Hell. Her father was never one for emotion, nor one to shy away from spilt blood. Hers is no exception. M mainly for violence but may contain sexual content further in.


_Shattered. Broken. Beat._

_These were all but words to me._

_Kicked. Slapped. Torn._

_Nothing left to mourn._

_Lashed. Punched. Wrong._

_This heart of mine has fled; gone._

_Hollow. Broken. Beat._

_This is all that is left of me._

* * *

I wonder hazily, as thin streams of crimson slide down my bruised back and onto the smooth floor beneath me, if my life was always meant to be like this.

Empty.

The pit in my heart only seems to grow each day that I wake up to find it beating. Surely, I silently hoped, death would collect me soon.

I do not cry out, not as of now. The pitying blanket of numbness has already engulfed my body, caressing me as a mother to her heartbroken child. My eyes land on the door. Long, jagged scratches run vertically down its dark wooden surface. Drying blood sits next to it.

It's a small, almost non-existent throb that embezzles itself on my back, as he brings down yet another bottle on my back. It might have been the leather of his belt that bit savagely into my tissue, but I couldn't decipher.

My eyes slowly travel down to the hand that lies limply by my nose, its torn nails and skin inking my hands in the same sickening patterns of red that mark the door. I shut my eyes, wishing I would just see blackness. Wishing that it would wrap its protective arms around me, too, and drag me into its dreamless depths.

Yet, I've never been one to get the easy way out of things. _So why,_ my mind slowly puts the words together,_ would my luck start now?_

I close my eyes, waited for his frustration to run out and for his disgust to take its place. Waited for him to call on a servant to clean the mess up. To clean me up. The pain would eventually register – it always did – and he didn't want to be around to hear my screams.

His footsteps sounded muffled as he placed a boot in front of my face. His voice, too, was a mixed jumble of growls and noise. When I open my eyes only to stare up at him, he threw his foot back and kicked.

Then, the President – my father – rightened his posture, looked at his blood-stained sleeves and shoes with feral satisfaction, turned on his heel and left.

. . .

My eyes snap open the moment that I hear the click of the door. I hadn't been asleep, no, but I had not been completely awake either. This was a stage that I had become quite familiar with, as of lately. The beatings were gradually becoming more savage – and painstakingly long. They left me with more time to recover than my father would allow.

Looking up, I found myself looking at a teenage boy. His blue eyes held a look of horror within them as they swept over my body.

He must be new.

I give him a weak smile, and tried to raise my hand to wave him over, but it only twitched. Drawing my lips down into a concerned frown, I try again before deciding it useless. My throat burns from the screams I had let out for hours on end, my voice eventually giving out.

I swallow, feeling my face pinch together at the great discomfort it causes me. The servant makes a move to rush to my aid, and I suddenly am felt with disappointment. Pain was not something to show in front of others, and especially those that you do not trust. Unfortunately, when you're in the middle of being lashed, all rationality flies out the window, and replaces itself with overwhelming instinct to flee. That, is the only reason I shall ever show weakness in front of my father, and under no other circumstances have I ever done so.

The boy kneels in front of me, uncertainty washing across his features. He doesn't know what to do.

A low burning starts in the beds of my nails, and I know I don't have long until my momentary blanket of bliss dissipates into pain. I open my mouth to speak, but he hushes me.

"Sorry," I rasp out, unsure of what else to say. I've never been around many people within my life, and certainly never anybody in close proximity to my age. He shoots me the most unbelieving look.

"_What?_"

"I'm – sorry. That you have to.." my voice lets off, but he shakes his head nonetheless. His mouth opens, but before he can speak again, a plump woman bursts through the door with an armful of medical supplies and a face contorted with fear as she searches for me. A small smile twitches the right side of my lip up as I spot her.

"Here, Lapia," I call out in a hoarse whisper.

"Oh, God. Katniss!" She cries out before rushing over and dropping to her knees, setting the basket to her left.

"You are excused for now, Rye," she says to the blonde beside her. Rye. I shoot her a look, and she nods.

"Yes, he's new. He was just positioned up last week by the slimy filth you call your father–" Rye's hand clamps around her mouth, his eyes as wide as saucers as his eyes furiously dart around the room. He begins speaking to at a blistering speed.

"No cameras," I wheeze out, the burning sensation traveling up my arms and centering into my back, turning into more of the feeling of being skinned by hot knives. The two immediately stop their arguing and turn their attention back to me. My forehead is rapidly dampening with sweat for the second time tonight. Tears spring to my eyes as Lapia places a wetted rag onto the raw muscle and skin of my back, and dabs the sensitive tissue. Her own eyes are pooled with tears as she pulls away the blood-soaked towelette and squeezes it into a small bowl of water, before setting it back onto the gashes. Lapia has never been one to warn me, and for that I'm grateful. Anticipation can be the deciding factor between reaching a goal and abandoning it.

This time, when I try to move my hand, it responds. I bring it to my mouth and clamp my teeth down on it so that when I do scream, it will not be loud enough to hurt their ears. Hopefully.

I gag as the dried blood caking my palm makes contact with my tongue, filling my tastebuds with the vile metallic flavor. Lapia scrubs the skin on my back, apologizing profusely through her small sniffles, but I'm lost in an entire flame of pain. My toes curl and I bite viciously into my palm, filling my mouth with fresh blood as my scabs reopen. My screams are strangled and partial sobs escape from my mouth, stifled behind my hand. It's embarrassing. It's weak. It's intolerable; indecent; shameful. Unacceptable. Disgraceful. Despicable. Self-loathing pours throughout my system and intertwines with the stabbing pain that laces my limbs. In a sudden moment, I stop screaming. I steel my eyes, push back every single tear that lunges forwards with everything I can. I remove my teeth from my throbbing palm and bite down instead on the scarred skin on my wrist – that will be the only indicator that I am otherwise in pain.

Lapia has already seen too much frailty from me these past few weeks. There isn't a point in it, as it just leaves my throat to ache and my body to become beyond the point of exhaustion.

"Has she passed out?" I hear Rye whisper, his voice thick. Lapia paused her administrations on my back. I couldn't speak, but felt the smallest of relief as she lifted the cloth from my wounds.

"I hope so. No child should have to endure this torture. Check, will you?"

Rye emerged into my line of sight, and I removed all traces of discomfort from my face as I looked back at him. His face shifted into a mixture of confusion and amazement.

"She- She's awake, Lapia," he finally said, his brows furrowing into concern.

"God, I'm so sorry Katniss," she said, and I didn't have time to complete a single thought as to why before the pain erupted to an all time high. A mangled blend of screams and sobs sounded from my throat. My face crumpled into an expression of complete agony. I buried my face into the crook of my elbow, no longer biting down on anything but my own teeth as let out a string of whispers and screams from behind my trembling lips.

Stitches. She was stitching up the gashes so that they wouldn't become infected.

It was a stomach wrenching pain, and I'm sure that had I been fed in the last week, I would have already been heaving up the contents in my stomach.

Instead, I choked on my own sobs, my sudden determination from mere moments ago shattered completely.

And finally, I went still. Cradling me in her arms, was the only mother I'd ever known.

At last, Unconsciousness held me close to her chest and took pity on her torn and broken daughter.


End file.
